


Open For Business

by dianano



Series: The Ere Dorotea Expanded Fic Universe [1]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Gen, Michael's hair tells her story change my mind, The Ere Dorotea Expanded Fic Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 23:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20090290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianano/pseuds/dianano
Summary: Michael needs a haircut. Tilly gets her one- with a side of forced therapy and social interaction thrown in.Takes place between S1E3 and 4.





	Open For Business

**Author's Note:**

> (TBH my mind flips between thinking that Sonequa Martin Green's hair is a bun & an undercut, but as an undercut-haver myself I was determined to show them a little love. Also, my firmly-held belief that Michael's hair progression represents her character arc...)
> 
> Follow the continued exploits of Ere Dorotea over at iridanus.tumblr.com!
> 
> Peace n Love,  
-S

“And by the way-” Tilly says without prompting, two days into their bunkmate-ship. “Brianna-From-Logic-Sciences says that she doesn’t have clippers, but she’s pretty sure that there’s a code for a flat iron in the synthesizers somewhere if you have enough rations, but you’re probably better off just going to ask Ere.”

Michael has no intention of going to anyone, though it does confirm something for her, as Brianna was the second person she asked for machine clippers (the first being Doctor Culber, in case he or Lieutenant Stamets used them). Culber had said no, but suggested she go to “Air-ay,” or however it was spelled. Michael had thought she had misheard, but no, it seemed that Ere was a person who had the things she needed.

“Who’s Ere?” she inquires gamely.

“She’s kinda like me,” Tilly responds, and oh dear, Michael really didn’t want to go now. “She’s the chaplain, except she got her cosmetology license when she was doing basic training ‘cause it was an elective. So she has the stuff you need.”

“I’ll be okay, thank you,” Michael says. “Specialists are allotted 150 kilojoules per month for personal synthesizing. If I need a flat iron, clippers, clip guards, hair cream, a comb, and rubber bands, that will only take…” (she checks the amounts on her padd) “...Three months.”

“Yeah,” Tilly says. “I’m getting you an appointment with Ere.”

* * *

The morning before she goes to meet the fabled “Ere,” she inspects her hair in the mirror. It’s a faraway look from when she first went on trial, though nobody is claiming that prison is conducive to wonderful hairstyles. It’s simply  _ fine _ . Within regulation, of course- that’s her only real standard.

Not to psychoanalyze herself, but she wonders if the fact that she’s seeking out hair care while refusing help from others says something about herself. That she believes that self-improvement can only come from within, or if she thinks herself unworthy of help.

Does the chaplain triple as a therapist, too?

* * *

“Ere, we’re here!” Tilly drags her through the door to the chaplain’s quarters, which Michael normally would’ve reprimanded her for as a breach of privacy, but the doors were already open. And every part of her Starfleet regulation brain wanted to reprimand the chaplain instead, for the clear breaches of protocol in her decor. Absolutely nothing was minimalist, as expected of a Starfleet officer. Clean and neat, sure- the bed was made, the decadent gold vestments folded on a bench, ready to be worn. The windowsill had four or five potted plants, which the chaplain had wisely bolted down for Black Alert drills.

And sitting at the table, seemingly waiting for Ere too, was a woman that Michael recognized as the deputy Chief of Security, Montgomery. She’d processed Michael when she was brought on as a specialist, and Michael had remembered both her height- she towered over Landry, and her intricate, geometric bantu knots. Michael remembered wondering how the woman kept her hair so perfect without frequent trips to a salon on a Starbase. This, it seemed, was how.

“This is her?” Out of the bathroom barges a petite woman, just as non-regulation as her room. She barely passes Michael’s shoulder, her long, curly hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her black-and-gray variant of Discovery’s uniform jacket was unzipped, and the priest’s collar that usually got tucked under the geometric neck was undone as well. She studies Michael with an inquisitive, energetic look. 

“Mich- Specialist Burnham, Reverend Ere Dorotea. Reverend Dorotea, Specialist Michael Burnham, my roommate.” Tilly introduces them back and forth in that flustered way of hers.

“A pleasure,” Reverend Dorotea says, smiling and shaking Michael’s hand. “Tilly spoke highly of you, and I think we can do something about your hair woes.”

“They’re not-” Michael looks back at Tilly, who slips past her to sit with Montgomery. “Woes.”

“We’ll fix you up,” Dorotea ignores that with conviction. “Pop a squat?” 

Between her gesture to a chair just inside the bathroom and what Michael thinks is expected of her, it’s not a far reach to assume that “pop a squat” is Terran slang for “sit down.” Which Michael does, but it doesn’t stop her from questioning Dorotea.

“Who’s ‘we’?” As far as she can tell, Dorotea is the only hairstylist.

“I brought Monty along in case you wanted braids or dreads,” Dorotea explains fluidly from across the room, as she prepares her supplies. “Most of my morning appointments are for that complicated stuff, and it’s always easier with four hands.”

Tilly has her hand halfway up when Dorotea responds to her with merely a glance. 

“You’re not ready to do those yet, Tills. But we can teach you,” she teases. 

“Maybe one day!” Tilly responds.

“A true captain, everybody! Doing her subordinates’ hair!” Dorotea exclaims, and Monty and Tilly laugh. Internally, Michael has a bit of a battle between wanting to join in and wanting to stay out. It might be dangerous to get attached to Tilly’s vibrant friends before she’s back to prison.

“So,” the chaplain says as she swings back around to Michael. “You say nothing fancy. Just a trim?”

“Just a trim,” Michael confirms.

* * *

The first part of the session is nearly entirely uneventful. Dorotea procures her own clippers and scissors, a much nicer kind than the ones you could synthesize, and frets over the damaged tips of Michael’s hair, the grown-out product of years of Vulcan ironing and relaxing.

“Sorry,” she hastily apologizes when Michael flinches to see big chunks of her hair fall to the ground. “But this has to go.”

“Do all chaplains do this?” Michael asks, deflecting. “Not every ship has a chaplain, either.”

“Very true,” says Dorotea, as she brings out the clippers. “Everyone’s an atheist these days,” (it must be some sort of joke, because Monty chuckles) “So the Chaplain Corps says we gotta earn our keep. Some chaplains take cooking classes, some take linguistics courses, a few dedicated folks are licensed optometrists, dentists, or psychotherapists. Me, I’m allergic to Retinax and hair growth stoppers and all sorts of medical innovations, so I figure I ought to get my cosmetology license.” (This explained the horn-rimmed glasses that Michael had observed on the table when she walked in.) “I think there are about 30 or 40 ships out there where the chaplains do hair.”

“I didn’t think there were that many ships with chaplains,” Monty banters smoothly.

“Amen to that, sister,” Dorotea says. “We’re a dying breed.”

Back on the Shenzhou, Michael had simply taken hair suppressors and ironed her hair with a steam iron twice a week. She does remember though, going to investigate off-duty use of one of the greenhouses, to find a few people who didn’t take hair suppressors cutting their hair in the dirt so as to compost it. That had been an interesting report.

“What kind of care were you getting, girl?!” Dorotea has gotten to a rough spot at the back of her head, where she couldn’t reach on her own, and it wasn’t exactly wise to turn one’s back to one’s prison roommate to ask them for help.

Ah, prison.

She’d gotten an unfortunately-regulation buzzcut when she was first processed, but after that they left her to her own devices. True as ever, she refreshed herself on Starfleet hair regulations in the library and kept it within those standards. But beyond that, she only had 10 kilojoules of highly-monitored synthesizer rations per month, which she generally had to use on the multivitamins that the cafeteria food’s lack of nutrition required.

“Okay,” Dorotea takes a step back after trimming away the damaged edges. “I could make this an undercut or a ‘fro or puffs, but those last two are gonna look really weird because I trimmed the sides more.”

“Just an undercut,” Michael affirms, determined to stop Dorotea before she attempts to give her something, god forbid,  _ fashionable _ . Strictly functional for Michael Burnham, mutineer.

Dorotea sighs and begins her work with the clippers. Her hand is just this side of too firm, but Michael relishes in the contact. She doesn’t remember the last time someone touched her with no ill intent. First the buzz of the clippers, then the rough scratch of the razor, and finally gentle, oiled hands. Dorotea takes her time massaging a pomade into Michael’s hair, smoothing it down and moulding it into shape. 

Throughout her time on this strange ship, Michael has been too on-edge to really relax. Her chatty roommate, the secretive captain, seeing people she used to command turn their backs on her. And as the fight in the cafeteria just a few days ago taught her, she still has to watch her back. But here, sitting in a nice, soft chair, with someone actively taking care of her… she has to remind herself that her time among friends is still limited.

“All done!” Dorotea says, and with a finger prompts Michael to lift her head back up and look in the mirror. And she looks nice! Bears a distinct resemblance to the time when she was five, and she got paste in her hair that required a similar undercut.

Dorotea, Montgomery, and Tilly all hover around her as she runs a hand through the puff at the top.

“Thoughts? Feelings?” Dorotea asks.

Michael pauses, and thinks.

“It looks good, thank you.”

  
  



End file.
